


Centre Stage

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Come Shot, Exhibitionism, M/M, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Rimming, Sex Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 13:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12583128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: A holiday in Paris turns into a public viewing





	Centre Stage

It was 1889, and we were in Paris. A lull between cases had given us the opportunity for a holiday. Several weeks were spent in exploring the city and discovering tucked away cafes and hidden clubs. 

In one such club, the distastefully named Roseleaf, we sat in a shadowed corner sipping cheap wine. Holmes had his hand on my thigh under the table, a lifetime in England telling him to remain discreet despite the openness of the other patrons. One couple at the table nearest us had been kissing passionately for some time. 

At the front of the club, a stage was crudely lit on a pair of singers who were skilled, but didn’t sing in harmony. I barely paid them any mind, my attention on Holmes. They simply served as a background noise. 

There was a subtle shift in Holmes’ posture, and I turned to follow his gaze to a young man who was approaching our table. 

“Ah, Englishmen!” the stranger declared before taking a seat without waiting for an invitation which wouldn’t have come. 

“Is it really so obvious?” I asked and leaned back in my chair. My arm was draped over Holmes’ shoulder and I brushed the back of one finger over his earlobe. 

“Englishmen all have a certain… expression. A look, when they are here. Tell me, friends. Have you interest in more delights? We have back rooms you can explore.” The man rubbed his fingers together and gestured for us to rise with him. 

“I trust they will be more delightful than these performers,” Holmes said with a smirk before standing. 

Naturally, I followed in his footsteps as we made our way through the tables and beyond a beaded curtain. The back rooms were set up like private stalls from a bathhouse, and the grunts and gasps from within them were easy to understand. At some of the stalls, young men stood with come hither stares. A few were daring enough to reach out to pluck at my sleeve and one was even so bold as to purr suggestions in my ear. 

Holmes tugged me against his side away from the lad. “Ah, I believe there has been a misunderstanding, Monsieur…?” 

“Verge,” our escort replied. 

“Of course.” I could practically hear Holmes rolling his eyes before he continued. “We are not looking for company. We… do not share,” he explained. 

“I understand,” Verge nodded and parted a heavy plush curtain at the end of the hallway. “Faithfulness is so comforting to see. You are clearly very much devoted to one another. But tell me, Englishmen. Have you not grown tired of the secrecy you face at home? The hiding away from others? Never able to show your love?” 

“What are you after?” I asked and reached out to catch him by the arm to turn him around so we were face to face. 

“I see you are not swayed by pretty language and flowery prose. Very well, I will be blunt.” Verge put one hand to his cheek and smiled at us both. “You are terribly attractive men. The differences between you- lean and wiry, strong and solid. You would draw a much bigger crowd than a few actors I could hire off the street. I would offer you an arrangement.” His smile shifted, and it reminded me so much of the one Holmes gave me before leading me off on mad adventures, that I knew I would like whatever offer was made.

*

The room was designed like a gladiator’s arena, with stands of seats circling the centre. Dozens of pairs of eyes were on us as I lifted Holmes off his feet by his thighs to set him on the draped box set in the middle of the room. 

We were both bare and slightly oiled to let the candlelight catch on the shine of our skin. I had taken time to carefully prepare Holmes before we were sent out on display, working him open with slicked fingers and tongue.

I held him in place and pressed his knees toward his shoulders to expose his arse to the crowd before I lapped at him from behind his sensitive sac up the length of his slim member. I made a grand show of sucking him with my nose against his groin. My own prick was happily twitching away at the attention we were getting. From the audience I could hear the damp sound of skin on skin as some of our watchers were unable to contain their thrill. 

Holmes had his fingers fisted in my hair, using it to guide me where he wanted my mouth. He pushed me from his length to his bollocks, then lower, all while muttering elicit requests and demands. 

I licked his hole, pleased to see that it was still loose from my efforts earlier. I rubbed my hands over his legs, gathering as much oil from his skin as I could to make sure that I would be well coated. Even with the preparations, I didn’t want to risk him getting stretched raw if I tried to push into him while dry. 

There was a rough, collective gasp from our audience when I lined up, and it shifted into a groan when I rose to my toes to bare down. In one smooth thrust I was completely enveloped in Holmes. 

He lifted himself up onto his elbows to give himself purchase to thrust up to meet me. His eyes were glazed and his cheeks were flushed red. Holmes always gave himself over to the experience, but our host had been right. Keeping silent and secret took away some of the pleasure. Now, with strangers staring at him, never guessing who he was, Holmes let go. He was loud, he was obscene, he instructed me to go harder, faster, hit that spot again. Again. Again. 

He was a natural performer, made to be on the stage. Holmes reveled in it. His hips bucked and his head tossed and when he reached his climax it was with a glorious cry of delight and a rush of thick semen that reached so far as to strike my cheeks. 

My own was just as strong. I thrust myself through completion and pulled out at the last possible moment so the audience could see the seed drip from Holmes onto the black cloth under him. 

Holmes was ragdoll limp and let his legs collapse, but there was a broad grin on his face still, even as the lights were blown out. We were left in darkness until our audience filed out. 

“I trust this won’t make its way into one of your lurid tales, my dear Watson,” Holmes panted. He sounded utterly drained.

“My editor gets flustered enough when I describe your body. I think I will spare him this adventure.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Verge means Cock.


End file.
